


What's In a Name?

by mintgreenkween



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 06:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18310244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintgreenkween/pseuds/mintgreenkween
Summary: Sandor Clegane reflects. Oneshot/drabble/character study. Sansan implied.--The last woman he loved had been his mother. She was the last woman to call him my his birth name. He paid the Lannister woman heed because her gold kept him here, here and far away from the ghosts of his kin’s Keep. For the rest of them they simply were. And they referred to him as much. In their whispers to each other it was ‘the King’s Dog’, ‘The Hound’ or ‘Clegane’. In the cloying sheets of whorehouses beneath him, it was a hushed ‘m’lord’ from a turned cheek.





	What's In a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle in your constructive feedback, I have not written in a while and am in a bit of a vulnerable state.

The only vows Sandor Clegane would take would be to himself - he vowed that he would never be caught off guard again. 

The days and weeks after the ‘accident’, where the household's maesters had treated his wounds, where his flesh burned and itched and puckered and deadened, he would become ‘The Hound’. This was long before they called him Dog to his so-called face. Here, half-mad with pain, and half-mad with grief of his sister and parents, he had made a decision. He would choose to trust those he could serve, no more. He would do anything, for anyone, to never be this vulnerable again. That is the true cost of loyalty.

Then, the Lady Sansa Stark had come along. The little bird had caught him off guard. 

He found himself wandering in these vulnerable thoughts as he too found himself wandering in the royal gardens, the royal court, the royal bedchamber, anywhere that was a whim of the boy King cunt. He could not abide the way Joffrey toyed with them - his waitstaff, his servants, his little bird. To kill was one of The Hound's richest pleasures, moreso than any other. He drank and fucked whores and diced like the rest of them, but only to a point. Nothing more useless than a weak man, and strong grog, soft cunts and the promise of riches made men just that. But killing… Killing was whole. It was neat and swift, and it made men strong. It was not toying. Joffrey toyed. Gregor toyed.

He did not think much on women as a whole. He was a wounded dog, they had that much truth of him, and wounded dogs do not think on much. Until now.

He found himself with hours and hours of guarding King Joffrey. While some men would find the talk of court as juicy as biting into a summer orange, it held no interest for the King’s Dog. Men were bastards, that he saw. Children were not much better, destined to be cruel little cunts, or to suffer them. 

That was if they made it that far. 

The other thing they said - about dogs or about him it made no matter - was that they were only loyal to a few. Men and women and those in between, they had always averted their eyes, as was the way he preferred. Only simpletons and children stared, and he could deal with those eyes on him. He could deal with the noble lords and the knights and the sellswords and the scum, he could deal with the ladies and the fishwives and the baker’s girls, he could even deal with the whores looking away, for all they were to him were slick cunts to spill inside. 

So why did the Stark girl’s shy glances downwards rile him so? On the road, now here.

The last woman he loved had been his mother. She was the last woman to call him my his birth name. He paid the Lannister woman heed because her gold kept him here, here and far away from the ghosts of his kin’s Keep. For the rest of them they simply were. And they referred to him as much. In their whispers to each other it was ‘the King’s Dog’, ‘The Hound’ or ‘Clegane’. In the cloying sheets of whorehouses beneath him, it was a hushed ‘m’lord’ from a turned cheek. 

But he was not such a fool as The Imp, another whorer, another fool with a fool’s nickname. 

Sandor Clegane knew men were bastards and that women were vain. His rank would not fix him with a wife who truly loved him and could behold his face without shame. There would be no maid to kiss his mouth full, to stare into his eyes while she guided him inside her. To share a holdfast with and bring up squalling brats and admire who’s colouring they had. Tyrion Lannister seemed to think sluts who would do anything for a copper would make this dream a reality. Piss on that. It was not for the likes of ugly fuckers than them.

What shitted him more than that was Lannister’s make-believe about himself. The Hound knew he was a cunt, that his guts were black and he deserved to die one day, cold and alone. And not just for the things he had done in his so-called service, but for how he spoke, what he felt, the thoughts in his head. Who he was. That was some small comfort, he supposed. For such a short man, it would be a long fall down for Tyrion Lannister. Better to be down in the dirt to begin.

Underneath it all, Sandor Clegane, The Hound, hated liars. From his first kill, a boy fresh in Robert’s Rebellion, he had loved it. The power. The control. Those who tried to convince themselves otherwise were fools. But lying came from sweet faces, too. And that’s what did it. His ugly marred face and blunt honesty hurt the pretty little world she saw for herself. The sooner that changed the better.

Perhaps… Perhaps he could help her. If she faced him, saw the reality of the world and couldn’t find any pretty words to say. Perhaps the fall would be a little lighter. If she could grow some wings in this hot and dishonourable stinkhole, she may fly yet. He could not bear it should she fall to the ground, nor if it were his boot that crushed her.


End file.
